


what you feel isn't safe

by blastellanos



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: I'm so sorry, M/M, Porn Without Plot, this is so bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 03:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/pseuds/blastellanos
Summary: James can’t exactly tell José he’s annoyed he can’t jerk himself off. Firstly-- it’d be wildly inappropriate, secondly-- what could he even do about it?





	what you feel isn't safe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesaddestboner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/gifts).



> Sorry excuse for porn.

“I could have made it to the room on my own,” James says. He’s frowning though and he keeps having a desire to gnaw at the end of his stitches. They already itch, which is a _great_ counterpoint to the throbbing pain he’s feeling. The painkillers can only numb so much and what he really wants, more than anything, is a stiff drink.

 “Is okay. I help.” José’s tone is cheerful, as usual, his smile bright and sunny in the dim light in the hotel room. James throws himself back on the bed and groans up at the ceiling, listening as José puts his bags down. He’s waiting for him to leave, because James knows at least _one thing_ that will make this feel less like torture-- if he could just get everything right.

 But José sort of needed to be… gone.

 But as he’s trying to think out the logistics his thumb twinges and he kind of whines because what kind of cruel fucking fate-- not just the DL and a rehab assignment, probably, but now he couldn’t even jerk off because it occurred to him, suddenly, he couldn’t bend his fucking thumb. He can feel José’s eyes on him.

 Probably responding to the pathetic noise he just made.

  _Get it together, Jimmy_ , he chides himself.

 “Something wrong?” José asks. It’s sweet but…

 James can’t exactly tell José he’s annoyed he can’t jerk himself off. Firstly-- it’d be wildly inappropriate, secondly-- what could he even do about it?

 A vivid flash of what exactly he could do dances behind James’s closed eyelids and he opens them up quickly, cheeks burning with heat and where did that come from. He swallows a little roughly and his brow furrows.

 “Man, those pain pills,” James says. He doesn’t mean to out loud, but he has to justify the weird thought to himself and José’s giving him a look that James can’t understand. He’d blame that on the pain pills too. James feels touchy.

 “You can leave any time you want.” James is impatient.

 “Okay, okay, I go.” José holds both his hands up like in defeat and then begins muttering under his breath in acerbic, _pointed_ Spanish. James doesn’t know the words but he knows the tone. And now with his eyes closed again he can see José’s tawny colored hand wrapped around his --

  _Fuck, you’ve done it now, Mac._ He thinks somewhat meanly to himself and right when José’s at the door, James sighs out--

 “Wait, wait please.” James watches as José stops moving, hand on the door, shoulders set and he studies the broad expanse of his back-- where the t-shirt he’s wearing clings tight to his shoulderblades and the muscles in his biceps.

 “What?” José asks and James hesitates again. He doesn’t even know how to word it. There’s frustration and _need_ and how does he even bring it up.

 “I uh-- I actually could use like… a favor.”

 James feels his heart pounding.

 “A favor?” José repeats. James nods and thinks he should backtrack. He wants to take it back but he's so…

 God. James is hard, he can feel it and he won't be able to sleep with that kind of energy buzzing through his body.

 “What?” José is giving him a strange look, with his brow furrowed a little and his head tilted to the side.

 “I…” James starts and he frowns a little. “I'm um…”

 He can't really ask José this. He can't ask.

 “Spit it out. I don't got all night.” José says impatiently. James is embarrassed. His cheeks have turned red and his fingers of his good hand is fisted in to the sheets.

 James opens his mouth a few times but no sound comes out. José is still watching and then mutters to himself in Spanish, turning to leave.

 “No, wait,” James says frantically. José sighs and James has been in the league long enough to know that the words he says under his breath are really not nice words.

 “What, James?” José says with a frustrated noise.

 James needs to say it. He wants to say. He wants to ask. He needs it. He can feel the desire licking all over his skin. “I need…”

 James trails off again, embarrassed. Mortified, honestly. He can't ask.

 “José,” James voice is soft. “I need…”

 “Need?” José prompts after James falls silent.

 “you.” James whispers the word, he's not even sure José hears it at first. But then José is giving him a look. Eyes a little wide.

 Oh yeah, he heard.

 Fuck.

 “Need me to…?” José prompts again. His voice is a little-- James can't place the tone.

 James doesn't want to clarify. Doesn't want to say more. He doesn't want to come out and say it. He doesn't know if José is teasing him. Or if he really doesn't know.

 José's face is unreadable, James wants to yell and swear but if he wants -- if he wants this he is going to have to just… ask.

 James breathes.  In, out, breathe.

 “José, I…” James starts, “I need … can you…” his heart pounds.

 José doesn't say a word, just leans back against the door and waits. But at least he is waiting.

 James feels flustered. His heart is pounding. He wants to say it. He wants… he needs.

 “My hand hurts so bad and it's throbbing and and it's not the only thing… that… needs attention.” He tries to imply it.

 José's expression doesn't change at all. Doesn't act like he understands at all with James subtle bit of innuendo.

 “you need more painkillers?” José asks.

 “No,” James says, barking the word out, getting more flustered by the moment. José waits more, still leaning against the door a little more heavily.

 James hates José. He'd rather be asking anyone else.  If anyone else was standing in the door…

 If it was anyone else that was there, James would probably not even be considering this. There's something about José.  He was refusing to acknowledge whatever that was though.

 He couldn't acknowledge it. But he had to focus on the here and the now. He pushes the feeling -- the big stupid crushing feeling -- aside. And bears down.

 He has to ask. James needs to ask. He needs to tell José. He has to ask. “José, will you… will you please… t-to-touch me.”

 He stammers the request out and feels like he's fifteen again, getting his first hookup in the back of his dad’s Buick. But he sees José's mouth turn up into a little smirk.

 José pushes himself off of the door and moves to the bed. James heart is pounding against his rib cage. And he can't breathe, like there's a weight on his chest.

 “Sit up,” José says. And James does. He doesn't even hesitate. The bed dips as José climbs into it next to him and then climbs behind him. James can’t think.

 José settles in behind him. He feels José bracket him with his legs. He feels José against him, chest against his back and the inside of José's thighs are against James.

 “Relax,” James isn't sure he can relax.

 He’s certain he can’t, actually. His breathing has gotten a little soft and shallow and his fingers are still clutching at the blankets in front of him. It’s not that bad, he tries to tell himself. José seems to not entirely _mind_ helping him. But he’s so embarrassed and his entire body feels hot with it.

 José’s hands are big and the settle against his shoulders briefly, then again.

 “You’re too tense,” José says. José has strong, sure hands, and James dips his head forward as his thumbs dig into the knots at his shoulder blades. It’s not as good as the ones that the physical therapists can give. It’s too rough, it digs in, until it’s almost painful and James squeezes his eyes shut and breathes through his mouth.

 It feels good though, he can feel the tension bleeding away, something like adrenaline adding to the feeling of arousal. He feels like his blood is on fire. James leans forward a little as José drags his fingertips lower down his back and then helps him take his shirt off.

 It’s a little awkward with his hand, but José is gentle, his hands lighting fire wherever he touches, nails scraping a little. James feels naked-- too naked and he wants his shirt back on. José splays a hand on his chest and holds him for a moment.

 “You want this?”

James nods, almost barely at all.

“Sure?” José asks.

James nods again. Bites his lower lip as he feels the press of José’s mouth against his shoulder. James can’t help the shiver that goes through him. And he doesn’t want to feel it, doesn’t want to have this memory of tenderness. He’ll have to go back to his _life_ after this and he couldn’t with-- with _this_.

But he can’t stop it either. Can’t stop wanting it.

José’s fingers trail over his chest.

“Just get to it,” James snaps, feeling himself tense again. He swears he can feel José smile against the skin of his throat. A press of teeth and José’s hand slides down to undo the button on his jeans. He pops it one handed, deft hands, practiced ease.

Like José did this a million times. James wouldn’t know if he did or not.

“Impatient,” José mumbles, pushing his hand down James’s pants.

It’s not enough. His boxers are in the way, José’s just pressing the heel of his hand there and James’s heart is racing. He can’t-- fuck he wants to beg for more. He wants to rail and beg for more but he just keeps his head down.

He can’t say anything. His words caught in his throat. Dying there, like he feels like he’s dying as José rubs against him. It’s not effective, it just feels-- stimulated, but not enough and it makes James jerk backwards a little.

“Please,” He mewls out. And hates the sound of his own voice. Pathetic, needy, desperate.

José’s fingers wrap around him through the cotton of his boxers and James squeezes his eyes shut tighter. It’s not enough. It’s not enough and James puts his head back against José’s shoulder, until he can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. His chest solid beneath his shoulder blades.

José slips his other arm around him, holding him around his chest, one big hand resting against the center of his chest. James imagines a more romantic moment, with the flat of José’s palm against the place his heart beats underneath.

(It’s rattling around like some wild animal in a cage, beating furiously against his ribs, until he’s afraid it might burst.)

James feels hot everywhere, like maybe the fire’s going to consume him inside out. He needs-- _he needs_ \-- and he doesn’t even know what he needs anymore.

He needs José. He needs _this_.

“Okay?” José asks, his voice against his ear and ringing through his brain. James manages a shaky breath and a shakier nod and José’s hands are steady and sure as they slide beneath the cotton of his boxers. José’s hands feel like a cool balm against his too hot skin.

He’s still dressed, José is still dressed, and he works him over almost expertly. The angle must be working, and he feels the way José’s bicep tenses with the movement against his ribcage, feels his fingers slide over the head of his cock and then circle him again, stroking, starting slowly, then getting faster.

It’s good. It’s not how James does it, and the difference is enough to make him bite his lip, his fingers twisting in the sheets as he desperately tries to keep his hips still. Sounds catching in his throat as he tries not to make too much noise.

And he stares straight up at the ceiling because something odd twists through him every time he sees the profile of José’s face in periphery.

It’s so good it nearly hurts. It feels like there’s a fire centered in his stomach that’s burning outward at an alarming rate. He’s going to be burned down by it, until there’s nothing left but ashes in the wake of it. José’s lips graze his ear and he jerks a little.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” José urges him, voice soft and patient, the edges of it blurred. James’ toes are curled, he feels tense everywhere, and he’s straining to keep still so he feels like he’s going to shake apart. José’s hands are strong and he feels he’s going to float away except where he’s being held down.

His hips hitch up and it moves him enough to where he rubs against José and feels that he’s hard too. It scares him. He almost wants to offer to help but part of him shies away and the other recoils in something and he squeezes his eyes shut so hard he can feel that there’s dampness gathering at the edges of them.

José’s taking him apart and he doesn’t even know why it feels like this.

“You can give in,” José mumbles against his cheek. “It won’t hurt. It won’t.”

So James does. His hips stutter forward against the tight circle of José’s fist and when he slides backwards, he can feel the way José is hard against his back. His breathing gets uneven, shaky and panting, rough and he’s sure he might black out from it.

His lungs are burning.

They fall into a rhythm. José’s strong and sure and solid-- James can’t stop from moving against him-- injured hand useless, his other pressing in to José’s thigh now, digging into jean clad muscle with his fingertips. José’s moving against him, rubbing himself off against the small of his back. He can feel the press of him through his jeans-- zipper and button scraping as James’s shirt rucks up.

He wants to ask for more. To tell José it’s okay if he wants to-- pull himself out, rub against his skin, let his come stripe all over the small of his back and make him a mess. If it wants to imprint himself everywhere, with strong hands and his teeth. If he wants to pin him down and take everything, give him everything, and leaving him even more breathless.

Instead, he moans out in shuddery little breaths and whispers out _more more_ , but it’s so low he’s sure José can’t even hear him begging.

He’s practically writhing as José touches him-- half from the feeling and half from the fantasy in his head-- and when he comes it’s dizzying and too much.

He wants to shout José’s name out, but he just manages a little choked off sob of it, while José’s hand keeps moving on him. Slick and fast, and James shivers in aftershock and oversensitivity. He’s sure José comes too a bit later, rubbing against his back and cursing in Spanish-- hard words, edged against with sharpness.

They stay there-- José pressed to his back-- for several long minutes, James feeling sticky and spent and tired and _scared_.

James doesn’t think he can move, but he can still be mean. End this. Whatever _this_ is.

"You can go now,” James says. There’s enough bite in it that he feels José kind of still behind him, almost like he stops breathing.

 “You’re welcome,” José bites back, tone just as sharp, even as he uncoils himself. Even as James swallows down a desire to beg him to come back. But he keeps his mouth shut, his tongue behind his teeth, his words stuck deep in his chest and beating hard in his heart like he knows they should be.

 José doesn’t linger. Doesn’t even bother to say anything else. James stays holding his breath until he hears the door click shut. He should clean up, he should do something-- anything. He, instead, grabs the pillow and holds it to his chest.

 And at least for now, he can pretend he can smell José’s cologne still there.


End file.
